


Dead Men

by calrissian18



Series: this shouldn't even be here [8]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Jealous Hannibal, M/M, Or Queerplatonic, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-03
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-04-18 20:21:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4719182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calrissian18/pseuds/calrissian18
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will’s certain letting go of his former life is the right choice, embracing one with Hannibal isn’t near as clear-cut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dead Men

**Author's Note:**

> This ficlet was originally posted to my [tumblr](http://wellhalesbells.tumblr.com/post/128200270244/i-dont-know-what-happened-i-wouldve-sworn-i). A follower asked me to post it here as well, so here I am.
> 
> I'm utterly new here and ner _vous_ about this fandom, please don't eat me.

“This seems—” words like ‘presumptuous’ and ‘in poor taste’ surface before drifting down into the darkness of Will’s mind and he settles on, “expensive.”

Hannibal spares a cursory glance for the subject of Will’s distaste, though he undoubtedly already knows.  They both take a moment to fix their gazes on the jut of angles that make up the grandiose bottle of aftershave.  Hannibal twists a glass of red between his fingers.  “It is.”  He inhales over the lip of it.  A small twitch moves his mouth in the ghost of a smile.  “Consider it the equivalent of a stay of execution.”

“My aftershave offended you that much?”

The smile revives, some darker, more twisted creature in this afterlife.  “You have no idea.”

Will turns away from the opulence of the bottle, the cuts in the glass mirroring and warping the warm marble counter, the Stainthorpian light fixture and his own drawn features, to take in the opulence of the room.   No expense spared, as John Hammond would say.  A psychopath Hannibal could’ve broken bread with if ever there was one.

One bed, though.  Will stands next to a mirrored dresser, in case he needs it for support based on Hannibal’s answer, and nods to it.  “Should I be reading into that?”

Hannibal meets his gaze steadily.  “Would you like to?”

“I don’t…” the power he’d felt at the negation, the certainty behind the bite of the word dies on his tongue and he finishes lamely, “know.”  It’s a contradiction he’s had to embrace being so close to Hannibal, looking at him and feeling both more powerful and more powerless than ever before.

Hannibal sets his glass down on the table and stands, buttoning his jacket.

Will doesn’t back away from the motion, though he doesn’t have far to go with the backs of his thighs already pressed against the wooden edge of the dresser.  Prey excites predator as soon as it starts leading a chase.  He doesn’t move, he talks, says, “We shouldn’t settle here, or anywhere.”  Truthfully this has never been to his _tastes_ , Hannibal’s lavishness, and he’s uncomfortable in this room even without the man standing in the center of it.  His mind palace is a stream by choice rather than a lack of imagination.

His words prove to be a weak shield as Hannibal moves into his space and murmurs, “We are dead men, Will.  There won’t be cavalry coming to any of our doors. You’ve ensured that.”

There’s a severity to his gaze that Will forces himself to stare back into.  He’d tried to kill them both.  That went a few lengths beyond ‘rude.’

He swallows, looks down at Hannibal’s chest.  “Jack will look until he finds bodies.”  He’s not sure it’s true, he’s also not sure it isn’t.

“Then we should live as sumptuously as possible while we have them.”

“Live?” Will says wryly, still not looking at Hannibal’s face.  It was easier when eye contact wasn’t something he  _wanted_  to give.  Anyone taking their eye off Hannibal though, it was almost encouraging him to devour you.  Maybe Will was.  “Not exactly a luxury available to ‘dead men,’ is it?”

“Or perhaps it’s uniquely possible now.  You are free to be who you are in all of its glorious complexity, Will.  Dead men have no chains.  Expectations, laws, morality.”  A thumb presses hard into the gold band on Will’s fourth finger, the force pushing it down onto the ledge of the dresser.  “Commitments.”

Will stares at the ring, too.

“This is no longer a part of you.  I expect you’ll want to leave the remnant of a life you are no longer living behind you.”

Will huffs under his breath, paraphrases Hannibal’s own words back to him, “They aren’t your family.  But I am.”

Hannibal rewards his borrowed insight with a dangerous smile.

Will uses his thumb to circle the ring around his finger, watches its slow and stuttered progress as it snags on his own rubbery skin and wonders aloud, “If I kept it?”

“I am certain you would adapt to possessing only nine fingers with grace and skill.”

Will smirks, meets Hannibal’s gaze and asks with dry humor, “Would you eat it?”

“When have you known me to let such prime meat go to waste?” he replies evenly, unruffled as ever.

Will feels no desire to keep it beyond knowing that it rankles Hannibal.  He’s right, however.  That life is behind him in every sense there is.  He slips the band from his finger, places it at the apex of a jagged whorl in the wood, and watches Hannibal watch him do it.  He’s certain letting go of his former life is the right choice, embracing one with Hannibal isn’t near as clear-cut.

“Maybe you should’ve let me drown,” he says, testing his footing.  “There were plenty of opportunities for it.”  It’s something he still doesn’t understand, why Hannibal had nearly died to save them both.

“Perhaps I missed the poetry of your gesture, Will,” he says softly.  Will doesn’t want to look at him but there’s a quiet insistence to his words.  He finds his gaze drifting up, meeting Hannibal’s, and he feels swallowed whole by the dark velvet of his pupils, lost in the future spelled out behind his eyes.  “I believed we were meant to go down together.”

Will swallows dryly, breathlessly forces out the words, “Or as Bedelia put it: Can’t live with him…”

He lets Hannibal fill in what follows and an indulgent smirk finds his mouth.  His thumb comes up to brush the smooth swell of Will’s lower lip.  “Ah, yes, my dear Mrs. Fell,” his words are soft seduction, “I believe we owe her a visit.”


End file.
